


Day Four

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Begging, Cock Cages, Dom Grunkle Ford, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:05:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8700319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s been four days, and if he doesn’t make it a week, he has to walk around the next port singing that he’s a little teapot, short and stout. Screw that. He’s not gonna give in. He’s not.
Stan gives in.





	

Stan’s reached the point where he hates everything: He hates Ford, he hates this stupid claustrophobic boat, he hates the sea, he hates the frickin’ clouds, and, more than all of the above, he _hates_ the cage between his legs. It’s past two and even Ford’s been asleep for ages, but Stan is too restless. He keeps palming uselessly at himself, jolting a little when a finger wedges between the bars and touches his cock. 

It’s been four days, and if he doesn’t make it a week, he has to walk around the next port singing that he’s a little teapot, _short and stout._ Screw that. He’s not gonna give in. He’s not. He just needs to forget about it. Stan forces himself to grab his pillow with both hands and rolls onto his back. He thinks about Mabel, and Dipper, and that stupid, adorable pig, and that’s where it spirals again, because thinking about Waddles makes him think about leashes, which makes him think about two weeks ago when Ford had him crawl on creaking knees after him all over the deck. 

“You can do this,” he mutters. He jams a hand between his sweating thighs and massages his balls, but it’s the wrong move, because _fuck_ it feels good, and once he’s started, he can’t stop, rolling them in one hand and rubbing the sensitive spot just behind them until his back is arching and he’s panting. His cock stiffens, and then it can’t stiffen anymore, the warm bars of the cage pressing against his skin. “Fuck,” he says. “I can’t do this.” He sits up and punches the underside of Ford’s bed.

Ford makes a muffled noise of surprise and flops out of the bed; Stan’s hatred for him intensifies when he lands in a crouch like a fucking cat. _Show-off,_ he wants to say, or _nerd,_ or maybe _weird-ass cyborg._ What he says is, “Get over here and get me off.”

Ford blinks, dazed and owlish without his glasses. He still sleeps in all his clothes, but his jacket’s gotten all twisted around his shoulders in the night and the hood hangs off one of his ears. He looks like a _dork._ Then, he relaxes, and straightens to his full height, and fixes his jacket, and he looks like the guy who’s about to wreck Stan.

“Really?” Ford says, with a sly smile. “Day four, Stanley?”

“Gloat later,” Stan says. “Dick in me now.” He kicks the covers away; Ford climbs into Stan’s bed and straddles his thighs. “Hang on – I must’ve stuttered. I said dick _in_ me, _now.”_

“Are you calling the shots, now?” Ford asks. He splays his hands on Stan’s chest, letting the edge of his fingers brush at Stan’s nipples. Stan grabs Ford by the hair and yanks him into a kiss, and hates _himself_ for how glad he is that Ford doesn’t mess around with that, kissing back just as fiercely, his wet tongue laving Stan’s bottom lip, his teeth scratching at Stan’s chapped mouth. As they kiss, Ford’s hands wander down, painting warmth down Stan’s stomach, along his ribcage. Stan is less subtle: He keeps Ford’s head right where it is with one hand and the other he jams between Ford’s legs, groping and rubbing his cock through his jeans. 

“Impatient,” Ford says, between kisses. He settles his hand on the inside of Stan’s thigh and begins to rub his thumb there, back and forth, back and forth, and Stan is so fired up that all it takes is that motion to make him groan into Ford’s mouth and buck his hips. “Do you want me to take it off?” he says, his voice heavy and rough with lust. “Stanley?”

“What d’you think?” Stan shoots back, bucking his hips to make his point. 

Ford bends down and licks the shell of Stan’s ear. “It’s a little unclear,” he murmurs. The hand between Stan’s leg slides up and palms Stan’s cock, but the touch is brief and gives Stan nothing before sliding further back. He begins to massage Stan’s sack, goading soft, frustrated noises out of Stan. “You seem to be enjoying yourself just like this.” The tip of Ford’s finger touches the rim of Stan’s asshole and circles it.

“ _Fuck!”_ Stan kicks uselessly and tries to jam himself down on Ford’s finger, but Ford keeps it where it is, rubbing and circling the sensitive flesh until Stan’s curses become incoherent noises. He reflexively clenches and unclenches his fist in Ford’s hair. Ford pauses and takes his hand away; that gives Stan enough time to catch his breath in deep gulps and form something more coherent than every curse word he knows. “ _Take it off,”_ he says. 

Ford sits up and leans back, examining Stan with a critical eye. “There’s not much _to_ take off,” he says, and gives Stan’s undershirt a little tug. 

“The cage,” Stan snaps, “the damn cage.” 

Ford actually has the nerve to climb out of bed; the cold air rushes in to take his place, striking every one of Stan’s nerves. Ford rummages in the desk, taking his sweet time, and Stan knows _exactly_ where the fucking lube is, and he knows that Ford knows it, but of _course_ Ford has to be a dick about this, _of course._ Then, Ford turns around and climbs back into bed, and he is _present,_ and radiating heat like a furnace, and fuck, Stanloves him. 

“Open,” Ford says. He doesn’t have to ask twice: Stan spreads his thighs and lifts his knees; he grips the sides of the bed tight, already knowing that Ford will throw a fit if Stan tries to touch himself. “Good,” he says. The praise runs through Stan like an electric shock. He grits his teeth and shuts his eyes.

“Just fuck me, Ford, for the love of – “

One of Ford’s fingers sinks into him, right up to the last knuckle. It drives thought out of Stan; it drives the very breath out of him. Ford waits, patiently, as Stan adjusts, squirming on his finger. It’s only once Stan has adjusted that he leans forward and says, “What was it you wanted, again?”

“Take it off,” Stan says. Precome is dripping from his reddened cock, thick and viscous. Ford cocks his head. Stan knows what he’s waiting for. He’s just – not willing to go there, yet. 

“Hm,” Ford says, and presses a second finger into Stan. He presses a thumb against the skin just behind Stan’s balls and he begins to finger him with shallow thrusts of his hand, grinding the tips of his fingers right into Stan’s prostate. He holds Stan down by the chest with his other hand, keeping him as steady as he can when Stan keeps bucking and thrashing and trying to fuck himself on Ford’s hand, faster, harder, needing more than Ford is willing to give. Isn’t that his life story? Ford always one step ahead, taunting him without even knowing it, dangling like the world’s smuggest, nerdiest carrot in front of Stan’s nose. 

He can’t even be angry, at this point. Well, angry about the _damn cage,_ which Ford is still busy pretending doesn’t exist while he fingers Stan. Stan’s dick is dripping now, thick beads of come soaking into the mattress. His hips stutter up, frantic.

“Say it,” Ford says, quite calmly, with a forceful thrust into Stan. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Please,” Stan says, gritting it through his teeth. 

Ford’s reaction is immediate: He presses the thumb of his free hand on the top rim of the cage and the stupid thing pops open with an aggressive click. Ford tosses it to the side and lets out a low whistle at the sight of Stan’s stiffening cock. It comes to a rest against Stan’s soft belly, twitching with need. “Again,” Ford says, burying his fingers into Stan as deep as they can go.

“Please,” Stan says, louder. Ford bends down until Stan can feel his breath on the sensitive head; this time, he doesn’t need prompting. Stan bucks his hips up and says, “Please, Ford, for god’s sake, please! _Please!”_

Ford smiles, and opens his mouth, and takes Stan’s cock deep into his mouth. 

Stan comes before he’s hit the back of his throat, comes so hard that he can’t think, can’t speak, can only moan and shudder as he spills everything he’s got into Ford’s mouth. Ford works his fingers in Stan, dragging it out, sucking and swallowing around Stan’s cock until the spasms pass.

Then, he rests his cheek on Stan’s hip and watches him catch his breath. Stan covers his face, waiting for his emotions to finish rolling over him – they always hit the hardest, and always take the longest to pass. (Ford is here. Ford loves him. Ford will give him anything, if he just asks.)

Ford is patient. Stan can feel the soft touch of a washcloth on his stomach, his oversensitive cock, between his legs, down his thighs. Ford readjusts himself, laying so his head is on Stan’s chest, his hair tickling at Stan’s neck. Stan takes a few steadying breaths and drops his arms. 

“Are you good?” Ford asks, gently.

“You’re next,” Stan mumbles. “See how you like it.” 

Ford laughs. “Alright,” he says. “Maybe after we dock.” He presses a kiss to Stan’s jaw and relaxes again, giving him a squeeze. “Get some sleep, little teapot,” he says.

Stan is way ahead of him.


End file.
